


At Les Deux Chandeliers d'Argent

by Darkhorse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Bistro, Having difficulty with the snark, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, at the moment he just seems either ironic or annoyed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert is a witty and snarky super famous chef who has a TV show where he goes around France and helps struggling restaurants by being sarcastic. One day, Marius Pontmercy applies to the show, concerned for his father-in-law's struggling Parisian bistro. Javert jumps at the opportunity; however, instead of crap decor and shit food, crazy employees and a goddamn awful owner, he finds a charming place with wonderful everything, owner included. It's just, M. Valjean has a tendency to let people go without paying their bills (especially when they're poor). But it's ruining Valjean's family and their finances.</p><p>Javert has seven days to turn this bistro into a money-making business, but can he do it without taking away its soul and ruining it forever? Plus, in the meantime, he falls in love.</p><p>Now properly Beta'd and much impoved</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> All comments welcome
> 
> There is no Enjolras in this story, per se, as I based the chef physically off Micheal Maguire in the TAC, and didn't want to cause confusion. Although that said their characters may be similar.

Ah, Paris, Paris. The tall man let out a breath as landmarks of the suburbs made themselves known, rolling past his car windows. He was back on good territory, a city he knew, both culinary and geographically like the back of his hand. This wasn't quite a pleasure visit, but it was better than the last month or two. He'd spent them padding around the deepest depths of the country, fishing restaurants that were deplorable back to what could be called an even keel. Although, whatever the producers said, it certainly wasn't successful according to his standards.  
Just one more week of torture and he could have a nice long break of normality.

The patch where he'd agreed to meet the crew appeared. He pulled up and parked, then climbed out to join them with barely a nod. He was annoyed when no-one was bothered by the curt behavior. Some would have cowered, despite the fact it was his usual manner. Only the Production Manager, a thin man who came up to his ear, approached him.  
  
“Monsieur Javert? Might I ask why we meet here, and not nearer to the target?”  
He gave him a withering look “Because, Gisquet I thought it would do you all good to use your legs for once.”  
  
When the Gisquet didn't flinch, he realised just how immune this one member of the crew had become to him. It was more satisfying to see the looks on the cameramen's faces, a prescribed weariness. They as a group would have the worst of it on the walk. Javert knew just how heavy and temperamental the cameras were, not to mention the hold-up they caused whenever one malfunctioned. He stalked away to a convenient bench leaving the camera men to finish mucking around with focus. That was certainly something that, in his opinion, they should have finished with before he arrived. To pass the time, he unfolded the email which had led them to this last episode, which kept him from returning to his own restaurant.

_Monsieur Javert_  
 _I write to you, as a fine chef, and a savior. To get to the point._  
 _My father in law runs a bistro in Paris, which is, to put it politely, as good as bankrupt. Yet he refuses to give the business up or acknowledge the depth of the situation to us. My grandfather has frequently offered him money, but won’t offer any-more, yet Monsieur Valjean keeps on. As you might be able to imagine, this is straining the family to breaking point._  
 _I must ask most humbly Sir, for you to intervene and help put the bistro back on the path to money, or at least make my father in law see sense._

_Yours Sincerely __Monsieur M. Pontmercy_ __

He sighed as he shoved the letter back into its folder. Another no-hoper spoiling the city that he loved. Oh, he knew that the entire point of the programme was to lift such things out of the gutter, to make them respectable. And it was good fun to pull them to pieces verbally, to see them tremble. But once, just once, he wished the places he was sent to save had just the tinniest piece of potential. In Paris he'd hoped it would be true, but this seemed to be the demented dream of a once-rich man. That made him even more mad, that a man with such money chose to squander it away, when perhaps he could have done more with his fortune, a fortune he was so lucky to have  
  
“We're ready Monsieur.”  
  
He rolled his shoulders back and rose, shoved the folder at Gisquet and set off in the direction of the restaurant with exacerbated step. The crew fell in behind him, in complete silence.  
  
Well, something was going right at any rate.

 

After a while, at the corner of two busy streets, he turned back to face the crew, his 'camera face' firmly affixed. o most there was little difference between this and his normal expression, since they were both unforgiving to fool and folly alike, both completely unemotional and with a tongue more likely to bite than to praise. However, to him, there was a difference. There had to be. But it was slight and no-one saw it easily. He flicked Gisquet a look, and after a moment the 'camera growl' began. He turned on his heel and walked on.  
  
“Today I'm going to do things differently. Let's see just how popular this 'Bistro' is in Paris, the home of Michelin stars.”  
  
He carried on, weaving through the street of busy Parisians. Finally he closed on one well dressed lady, who didn't look too harassed by time to be stopped. Javert was not of a mind to become dinner-table gossip fodder so he behaved with quick politeness, and just a smattering of confusion to fit the act.  
  
“Pardonnez-moi, Madame, Do you know where _Les Deux Chandeliers d'Argent ___is?"  
  
For a moment he thought that he'd stumbled. She cocked her head, thought a moment, but then explained that, regretfully, that she didn't know. A flash of smugness filled Javert as he thanked her and moved on. So he had been right! His target, which he knew was on the other side of the city-centre, was unknown by the best Parisians. A recipe for obscureness and a recipe for failure. However he had only walked a few paces forward when he was pounced on by another man. Words tumbled out of the man's mouth in a rapid stream and Javert had difficulty understanding the specifics for a moment, only the continual mentions of left and right. He held up his hands  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“You wanted to know where _Les Deux Chandeliers d'Argent ___is, oui?”  
  
  
He nodded. The man smiled and repeated his directions, before tipping his hat and walking on.  
Javert turned and raised a brow to Gisquet, accusing him of a set up, only to receive a shrug in return. He sighed, his triumph souring by the second. Not only did it prove him wrong in the most public fashion: in front of an entire crew, all of whom had sharp eyes and ears. It had also ruined his plan, to go down this street asking, to no avail, then cut the filming and make their own way, using the map provided. Now he supposed, he would have to follow the directions given, if only to prove that there was a confusion.  
  
At least there was something called editing to be done before this went on air. Something he never thought he'd be grateful for. Normally he was peeved by it. They cut off his best rants, on the grounds that they were somewhat unfair to the owners of the restaurants. To his mind But if the men couldn’t stomach black and white, they shouldn't have applied. He was not one to sugar-coat the truth if people needed to hear it.  


Having changed streets a few times according to the memorised directions, he decided it was worth 'checking' whether they were going in the right direction. He approached the first person he saw and asked his original question. The man pointed down the street, then reeled off some more directions, identical to the first.  
Hiding his disappointment, He returned to the crew, signalling them to move on again. Inside he was snarling. He liked challenges... It was why he'd signed up for this in the first place, but there were limits as to when the trouble started! He pretended to ignore the amused mutters of the crew at the fact that he was being thrown out of synch. Instead he stepped out of camera range and consulted his paper map. 

The bistro was tucked down a side street to one of the quieter Paris squares. An unassuming position for an empty and unassuming place, Javert thought as he looked around the corner. The tables out the front were full, but it was a sunny day. Most likely people were avoiding poor décor or smell by sitting outside. He'd seen it done before. He walked down the street, through the tables and to the front door while trying to look ordinary, which wasn't easy with a camera crew behind him. Without looking through the windows for more than a passing glance, he pushed open the door. The bell tinkled sweetly, but was soon completely lost in noise.  
Javert stopped, too stunned to even notice the camera poking over his shoulder  


The bistro was full of people. Every table held at least four, every stool at the old barwas occupied, and some people were leaning against it to drink  
  
Javert scanned about for an empty table, but all he found was a mass of people. A tall waiter, his cravat tied neatly, came over. The waiter smilied a welcome and seemed not the least disconcerted by the camera crew on Javert's tail. Either he was made of stone, or he was a very good actor.  
  
"Monsieur, welcome, there is a table over here, if you would follow me."  
  
The table was in a little niche to the side, slightly cut off from the rest of the room. But Javert realised could see the entire main room from here, which suited him fine.  
  
The waiter stayed at a discreet distance while he settled, then came forwards ''Some wine, or a menu, Monsieur?''  
  
He did not feel inclined to testing their taste in wine, not just yet ''Menu...please.''  
  
The young man didn’t seem remotely abashed by his curtness and handed over the menu with all decorum and politeness. In what seemed like a Devil-send, just as he was going to snarl the man away for hovering, a strange whistle cut through the chatter and the young man disappeared into the throng.  
  
He scanned the menu. None of the dishes seemed exactly original, which was what he'd often found. They were the good classic dishes from all over France. His eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. This assignment was turning out to be quite different to normal, and he was barely in the door.  
Just as he lifted his head, looking about, the young waiter was back, so quickly and quiet that Javert, were he not a master, felt he would have jumped  
  
  
''Do you hide in the woodwork, or in the walls?''  
  
The young man laughed merrily, in a fashion that could only be genuine ''No, we just have sharp eyes here Monsieur.''  
  
He returned the grace by giving his order less curtly than he might have. If the waiter was surprised that the new guest appeared to rabidly avoid anything involving chicken, fish or pork, he showed none of it as he wrote the order down. Javert tried to signal for one of the cameramen to peep over the waiter's shoulder, but the man was too quick.  


******

  
Feuilly passed the slip with the new order over the counter and saw Chef's eyes widen at his addendum on the bottom. Despite the surprise, the second called it out in a steady voice, making sure the information got through clearly before adding the final: “And make it your best, there's a camera crew about.”  
  
“Mind the tarts” Joly's shriek came from the far end of the kitchen, and all eyes saw a scurry down the end of the galley. The lack of clatter indicated the rescue of a tray before it hit the floor. Camera crew or no camera crew in the restaurant, they would keep going as normal. The Chef turned back to Feuilly.  
  
“Make sure Monsieur Valjean knows. I'm sure this is Marius' misguided attempt to help."  


*******

The food surprised him, as everything did in this strange place. Waiters who cared, but weren't in the way, the restaurant stuffed full of people when he'd expected it to be empty. And now beef of a kind and cooking he'd not tasted for years on this programme, not even at the end of the week when his work was done. This place was special, that was for certain. He scrutinized each bite, but also found himself savoring them ignorant of the pleased munches coming from his group of hangers on. Before he knew it, the course had ended, and he was confronted by an empty and gravy cleared plate. 

  
He sighed and sat back, content to watch the other guests for a little while and get a feel for the place before he announced himself. The main patrons seemed to be workmen, coming in during their lunch time to eat and talk. As he waited, the crowd gradually thinned, last drinks being downed and groups exiting one after the other. Surprisingly - but why was he still surprised in this place? – the people leaving bad not only their friends farewell, but the staff, too. H He casually leaned on it, like he had just come over for a drink. The bar man, one of the pair he'd seen working, smiled at him.  
  
“We're starting to wind down, , but what can I get you?”  
  
“The owner of this establishment, please.”  
  
For the first time, there was a flicker of nerves in the young man's eyes, and he wondered what sort of tyrant the owner was. Certainly too demented to realise that he was losing money like water from a sponge.  
  
“I am he.” A voice came from behind him.  
  
Javert turned about.  


  
The man in front of him came to his shoulder, with white-grey hair curling to his shoulders and a small bushy beard of the same colours. He didn't look like a tyrant, eyes bright, a smile on his face and his hand extended in welcome.  
  
“Jean Valjean. Pleased to meet you”  
  
There was nothing to do but take the hand and shake it. “Javert.” He said simply.  
  
Valjean's smile didn't falter though his eyes changed slightly, recognition clearly there. "Ah yes, we've had an eye out for you." He gestured expansively with his arm. "Come and meet all the others who help me keep this the heart and soul of this place in its body."  
He started to lead off and Javert was ready, if wary, to follow. But Valjean turned back, addressing the barman “Bahorel, you're a dryer today.”  
  
The man shrugged lightly, wiping down the bar with easy strokes as he spoke “Fair enough, just so long as Bossuet's out.”  
  
Valjean nodded. “He is.”  


  
Javert waited until they were halfway across the restaurant area before asking; “Staff tiff?”  
  
“Not exactly.” Valjean walked the last few steps and pushed on a solid looking piece of wood to reveal the kitchen passage, which he then led Javert down.  
  
A head popped up beyond the serving plates ahead, and a voice called back into the kitchen “Eponine, you've got your rolling pin handy?”  
  
A girl's voice shouted back from the other end: “Haven't got any spares to pinch.”  
  
Javert shot his guide a look, and Valjean just laughed again. “All will become clear...Michel!”  
  
The head of the one who had spoken first came out beyond the serving point, revealing a tall, lightly built and dark-haired Frenchman.  
  
Valjean stepped between him and Javert. “Javert, may I introduce Michel, our chef. Michel, this is Javert, who has come to join us for the week, I believe?” The last he addressed to Javert with an arched eyebrow.  
  
Javert sensed the chef sizing him up, and accepted the handshake offered with good grace. “Pleased to meet you.”  
  
The chef nodded. “Likewise.” Then he turned back to the kitchen, lifting the panel he'd used to exit again “Come in please.”  
  
Another surprise! The bistro's owner didn't attempt to combine the roles of chef and owner like many did.  
  
Two rows of heads popped up from their various tasks as he entered. Bringing up the rear of the three person cavalcade. It was Michel who made the introductions this time, pointing out the various faces.  
  
“Feuilly, Combefere, our two primary waiters aside from Monsieur. Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Lesgle, who we call Bossuet. And Joly, who keeps us all extremely safe. Next to him is Eponine. That's everyone, as you've already met Bahorel upstairs.”  
  
Javert nodded, taking in the faces in a second, except for the girl, who seemed to be hidden behind a row of co-workers. He took in the spotless state of the kitchen. Aprat from the pile of crockery waiting to be washed, the work places were nice and tidy.  
  
Suddenly a bell rang and Javert jumped, only to find Michel lowering his hand from the brass bell hanging to the left of their heads. The chef pulled out a scrap of paper from under his whites 

“The rota today;Chairs and tables, Bossuet and Joly  
  
“And please don't knock the candlesticks over again” Valjean pleaded, That caused some amusment, stilled by the heartfelt look in the older man's eyes.  


_“Drying_ Bahorel, Jehan, Feuilly,Myself. Washing; Graintaire, Combeferre,Courfeyrac...”  
There was a long pause. Javert felt a look shoot past him to the owner, and a few titters sounded as they realised what would come next  
“Monsieur Jean.”  
  
There was a laugh at that and Michel raised his hand for silence, once he'd stopped grinning himself “And Eponine... you're excused.”  
  
Everyone scattered to their places. Javert found himself feeling like a spare part, and, dangerously in the way. To save face he nabbed Valjean by the cuff before the man disappeared into the throng. “What time do you open, in the morning?”  
  
“7o'clock” Valjean shot him a small smile, still wary, but didn't get a chance to say more, as Michel roughly but fairly propelled him towards the sinks near the crockery, with a clear aside of ' No running off now'  
  
Javert backed away, returning to the half of his crew he'd unexpectedly abandoned back in the restaurant when the stair turned out to be to small for all of them to fit down. and more importantly, get back up again. He was worn out, and rather shaken, quite glad to concede to Gisquet's suggestion that they retire to their hotel. 

During the walk to the hotel, he mulled over what he'd seen. His mind caught on the long list of every member of staff the establishment had. It shouldn't have had such an impact, but it did. And the jokes he'd picked up underlying their conversation spoke of mutual fondness and respect between owner and staff. Of equality. Quite frankly, he had to admit he didn't know what to make of it. He, who made clear first impressions! 

A few steps behind Javert Gisquet watched his star out of the corner of his eye. This week promised to be interesting and amusing, because for once it seemed the famous Javert was actually uncertain as to what to think. And that was new. 


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert tries to get started, and hits a brick wall

Javert and his crew were all there when the sign on the door flipped and the bell rang out for opening the next morning. It was Valjean who ran up the blinds up and welcomed them in, a cheery smile on his face.  
  
“Cor, who're these? Film crew?”  
  
From behind the kitchen door a boy poked his head out. He was only about ten or twelve, Javert estimated, but he had a presence.  
  
Valjean continied to smile, an element of fondness appearing “No, TV.”  
  
Javert felt the boy's eyes fix on him. And then, inevitably, came the gasp he'd been waiting for.  
  
“You're Javert!” He saw the boy draw himself up, a cocky smile on his face “Good morning dear inspector, lovely morning my dear”  
  
“Gavroche, shoo.” Valjean clapped his hands at the boy.  
Gavroche simply laughed and backwards through another door when they entered the corridor. He was still singing as he climbed what seemed to be modern garret stairs behind.  
  
Javert turned to his guide “Who's he?”  
  
“Eponine's little brother. They lodge up there with me. He's cocky and sharp, but there's no harm in him.”  
  
“You employ him?”  
  
Valjean shook his head “No, but he's a pet of Les Amis down there, and he helps his sister clean up sometimes, so he's about when he isn't at school.”  
  
The kitchen was a quiet hum of activity when they entered. Most of the staff was already there, cleaning their spaces and checking little things. Valjean left Javert alone for a moment and walked over to Michel. Javert strained to listen after them, and signed for the boom mike to go over to them to hear what was going on.  
“All well?”  
  
Javert missed the the rest of the exchange, because hand tugged at his shirt. He looked to see a short girl standing next to him, eyes lowered and expression ashamed. Thinking back to his introductions the day before he realised that this must be Eponine, which was confirmed by the fact she was the only girl about.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“To say sorry.” She whispered it.  
  
"Speak up girl” He had no patience with whisperers. Whispers meant wasted time.  
  
“I'm sorry that you got so sick after visiting my father's restaurant.”  
  
There was only one place she could mean, and he narrowed his eyes. “Eponine...Jondrette, then, is it?”  
  
“No, Eponine Thenardier.... My father changed his name after 'Sargent' was shut down, before he started 'Warrior'”  
  
Ah yes, 'Warrior', which had put him in hospital with the food poisoning last series. That had cancelled the series, so this run had to be so much longer to make up for the loss.  
  
He spoke through his teeth.“I shall wait and see if the apple has blown far from the tree, Mademoiselle, but I am not sick yet.”  
  
“It would be impossible with Joly around. He's slightly nuts on health.”  
  
"Slightly is an understatement." That was Lesgles, who was chased out by Michel with the instruction to stand down the chairs. The opposite of the job he'd done yesterday, if Javert remembered correctly.  
  
“What is he, a furniture mover?” It came out very sarcastic, but it seemed well deserved. Everyone stopped, and Michel turned to face him  
  
“This restaurant has run before you turned up." Michel said "We all have our duties.”  
  
“And it's going down the drain, else I wouldn't be here.”  
  
There was no denial from them, just wary looks of acknowledgement and acceptance that it had to be that way. But there was also a sudden solidarity that hadn't been evident in their gentle tiffs the night before. The knowledge that they were banding together against him was unsettling, but also familiar. Almost every kitchen crew before them had reacted in the same way. He had come to help, but they were making it clear with body language alone that he was unwelcome. Still, he'd had worse receptions. He could hold his ground against this.

The morning was very quiet, it seemed. So much so Javert was surprised that they even bothered to open. He said as much. Michel just looked at him.  
  
"We are here if people want to enter. That's all there is to it."  
“Surely it's better to open, knowing you will sell, it must cost more in your wages than is taken to the till. And quaint as you are, you're not on the tourist spots.”  
  
“We do well enough.”  
  
He wanted to stare the other man down, but it seemed Michel was immune to that tactic. The chef met his gaze long enough to hold it, but then shifted it a fraction to avoid being out-stared.   
Javert locked his teeth. He didn't like these kind of challenges. Straight fights he could cope with, but people who changed the rules halfway through the game… Oh, he could cope with them, too. They just took so much more time. Time which in this situation he didn't believe he had to waste. He had a week to fix this restaurant, and the cracks were trying to hide from him. Why couldn't it be simple? All others had been simple. There were few visitors this morning, yes, but it had been packed last night. There was no reason for this restaurant to be failing. It didn't make any sense. 

Trying to think of an answer, he stood in a shadowed corner created by a rough niche in the back wall and watched the restaurant in action. It was as polished as it had been the day before. Except there was more banter between waiters and the customers. It wasn't something he normally agreed with, but here the customers were starting the interaction, and it was clear that they were regulars. He couldn't call that a fault then, but it made another hole in his picture. This restaurant didn't seem to be struggling in any aspect. That it was slow at breakfast meant nothing, since many people ate at home.  
  
“Having trouble, inspector?”  
  
He flicked his gaze sideways to see Gavroche leaning on the door post, munching an apple with a wide grin on his face  
  
“I'm not an inspector, in the police or otherwise.”  
  
“And it's the fault of Voltaire I fell to the ground” Gavroche laughed, with complete abandon and carelessness. Javert flapped a hand at him.  
  
“Shoo boy, go to school and learn your lessons, stop bothering adults.”  
  
For a second he though Gavroche was going to throw the apple core at him, but the boy threw a glance to where Valjean circulated between the few customers, and kept hold of his scrap. Instead Gavroche slipped through the service door, whistling and skipping steps going up the stairs. He turned his attention to the bistro again, as the few customers ambled their way out the front door. 

A cloth slapped into his shoulder, not quite hard enough to sting but enough to get his attention. He snatched at it on instinct, and turned his head to meet Michel's cold eyes  
  
"Since you're to be around a while and you're loitering, you might as well make yourself useful. Give Lesgels a hand wiping the tables over, so they are ready for lunch."   
  
He found himself holding the cloth, staring at it, but without really comprehending. Then he set to the task, hiding his temper for the moment and swallowing the sharp response which hung on the tip of his tongue. For the moment, anyway. This chef looked like he would be one to snap back. He was not adverse to an argument but given how close knit this crew was, it wouldn't only be Valjean at his chef's side, it would be everyone else besides. At eleven to one he'd almost certainly lose, and that would not look good on his show. As it was this episode looked to be more comedic than anything else. Thank everything for editing!

Lunch at first seemed to be as hopeless with regards to find the problem with this bistro. Tables and bar stools as full as they'd been when he'd first arrived. In the kitchen it was only orders of medium expense, but lots of them, which in Javert's experience tallied to significant more than only a few expensive ones. The staff were trotting back and forth on their feet, nearly overwhelmed but keeping up with good practice. Javert found himself forced to admit, if only inwardly, that he was very impressed with their abilities, he made a mental note to check if any of them attended a culinary school of some sort. Although if they were, this would be the last place he would have expected them to be working for. He skipped sideways to avoid another full tray, extracted himself and the camera man from the chaos in the process and took refuge in his niche of the restaurant. Just as he did so, his eyes caught something.  
  
Over in another niche, Valjean plucked a bill strip from a waiter's tray, put another slip of paper in its place with a pointed nod, and then allowed the waiter to carry it to the required table. Javert followed the young man's movements to one of quieter alcove tables. Grouped around it was a group of Paris' apparently poorer residents. The waiter walked up to them with a warm smile and said something. After a few moments, the people at that table got up and left, each making an effort to catch the eye of Monsieur Valjean before they exited. Valjean waved them onwards with a smile. By now Javert was quite familiar with the feeling that reached him now: he hadn't got a clue what to make of that little performance. He stepped forward and intercepted the waiter, who he now recognised as Feuilly. As he took the slip of paper from the tray, the waiter neatly sidestepped him to proceed to the kitchen.

The paper was slim, about the same size as a short bill, and hand written;  
 _Paid for by silver._

He frowned at it, seeing puzzle which was there but not comprehending it. The phrase said 'by', not 'in'. And he didn't remember seeing money changing hands, nor any evidence of payment on the tray. Not even a card receipt. He frowned. 'By', as if some other rich patron was paying for the meal. He'd seen that before in expensive resturants ,though he didn't really hold with the idea. People knew what waited for them at the heights of sucess; But they should earn it before they tasted. He'd had to earn it.  
  
Something poked his back and he turned sharply to see his producer Gisquet giving him a very pointed look. He'd been staring at the paper for too long, rather than doing what he was supposed to, namely making a TV show. He pocketed the slip of paper and turned his eyes back to the room while stringing in some commentary to the camera. He did his best to keep his voice unemotional, to conceal the puzzle behind bland words. He had no trouble criticising this situation, but the viewers would love this sort of altruism, so he couldn't voice his opinion too strongly. And if he did start, what else would he let slip? That he hadn't got a clue what was going on.  
  
Why oh why, had he selected this one, out of all the letters?  
  
He twitched, staring but not seeing. He couldn't blame anyone for this. They'd let him take his own pick from the pre-selected letters. This one he had picked in a bitter mood, when he was angry at Jondrette for making him ill and sour with the world in general because of it.

During lunch, Javert watched three more times as Valjean replaced a bill with the slip of paper. Each each time he intercepted it, he found the same words. Some code between the staff, perhaps? But that didn't explain why the guests got to see what was written, or their gratitude towards Valjean when they left. He drew away and found the extra back door which didn't pass through or by the kitchen to slip around to the front. It was time to find out what the customers thought of this bistro, and most importantly, whether they would return. 

It turned out the difficulty wasn't catching customers, but doing so without being seen by the people inside the restaurant, considering the broad front of windows. He knew for certain that interviewing the customers would not be appreciated by the restaurant staff, and so he found himself a place just around the corner, where he let Gisquet do some relevant snagging before he faced them with the questions.   
Every answer was positive, in all aspects, price, quality of the food, and the atmosphere. When he pressed and pressed, there was only one negative.  
  
“We do not see enough of the waiters” The man straightened his collar slightly self consciously   
  
Javert's face lit up. "How so?" he asked eagerly. "They don't give attention where needed?"  
  
“No sir, they do that as best they can, but they are busy so there's less time to talk.” The man chuckled “But they have their jobs to do, and we have good food to eat while it is still hot, so it is fair enough.”  
  
Javert's initial glee vanished again,“And the staff themselves?”  
  
“Good men, every one.” The man walked away, clearly having other things to do than answering another question. Javert avoided the gazes of his film crew, hiding his frustration, and led them back to the bistro.

The restaurant had been winding down from lunch rush hour when he had left on his opinion hunting. Now, however, it was closing for the afternoon. His ears picked up a distinctive clatter of shutters and blinds as they came through the delivery entrance, and sure enough the main room was darker and shadier, its windows covered. The chairs were being lifted onto the tables, and one of the other men was fetching a bucket and mop to clean the wooden floor. The process seemed well-organised and efficient, and it drove his mind mad. There was no reason whatsoever for the bistro to be losing money, but he'd been given the impression that the coins were flowing away. If this Marius had been making these problems up, he would be in serious trouble!

Javert turned on his heel. The crew leaped out of his way, an action accompanied with some liberal swearing. He ignored them and strode down the steps into the kitchen. Here, too, he found a bustle of clanking activity as the washing and drying was completed and everything was tidied away. It would be several hours from now before the bistro opened for dinner, if it was anything like his own restaurant.  
  
Perhaps now would be the time to start gathering answers. He let himself in and pointedly tapped Michel on the shoulder.  
  
The man turned and gazed at him with dangerous eyes “What do you want?”  
  
“I want to talk to you, for the programme.”  
  
Micheal gave him a long look, far steadier than Javert had expected from him, then the chef's eyes shifted to where Valjean stood in the drying team. There was some silent communication, and after a moment Michel nodded curtly.  
  
“Alright”

They went to the main restaurant and lifted two chairs down from one of the tables. While they sat down, the film crew silently gathered around them to record the interview. There was really nowhere more private to do this, at least nowhere Javert was allowed to go. Although he had seen Michel's eyes drift to another staircase on the other side of the restaurant before the chef selected one of the downstairs tables. To avoid distractions Javert forbade himself from asking what was up there, but he found his curiosity peaked.  
  
“What do you want to talk to me about?”  
  
This interview was derailing already. He was supposed to be the one asking the questions! He layered his voice with all his irritation and annoyance when he answered: “The bistro.”  
  
Michel scoffed. Had he been Gavoche's age, Javert would have expected an irreverent noise such as 'duh' to escape him as well   
“I hardly expected to be the weather... Well, what about Les Deux Chandeleirs d'Argent that you wish to know?”  
  
"Why it is losing money?" Javert said bluntly. He levelled his fiercest gaze on the younger man. "And before you tell me it's not my business, I was sent in to save this place from bankruptcy, which is what I'm trying to do."  
  
“You were sent in by Marius, who does not know the first thing about restaurants, who is only doing it to keep his wife Cosette happy.” Michel met his gaze coldly “We receive rewards for our work, the kitchen is clean, the food is fresh, customers are happy and the roof does not leak. I'd say that makes us a successful restaurant."”  
  
Javert felt his temper rising. He reached up to his pocket and dragged out the slips of paper he'd snatched from the trays during lunch.  
  
"What do these mean, 'paid for by silver'? Is it some code you have invented to confuse and bewilder me? To make me look a complete idiot?"  
  
"Don't flatter yourself! This existed before you barged into our world, monsieur. And you'll need to speak to Monsieur Valjean about that. He is the one who writes them. I just deal with the kitchen." Michel stood up. "If you will excuse me, I must supervise the cleaning of the kitchen. We would not want to put a bad face to the customers, or the cameras." He nodded once, then turned his back on Javert and walked away with confident steps.  


  
Javert restrained from swearing and slamming his hand on the table. It would only hurt, and he'd probably get yelled at for damaging the floor. He gritted his teeth, and got up with abrupt violence, snarling an instruction.  
“We're going.”

He scrawled a note on the back of one of the enigmatic slips, informing Valjean that they could do as they liked, because he and his crew would not be around for dinner. The pencil all but snapped in his hand as he signed his name. With cold and hot fury surging through his veins, he stormed out of the bistro. There was something wrong. There had to be, but they were hiding it somehow. It made him furious!.

And, why had he left the note anyway? Honesty? Or maybe to prevent nasty rumors of him being a demon. Well, he was. Every restaurant he had visited saw him like that in the beginning.  
  
The worst of it was that he wanted to like the owner, if not the chef. Valjean ran a good bistro and, although this was beyond the point, he seemed a gentleman. But Javert had a job to do, and because Valjean and his staff were stubborn as mountain mules, he couldn't even find the problem. He glared at the cloudy sky. He should have become an astronomer, not a rescue-chef. The stars didn't change or argue back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow Micheal appears to have stolen the snark...
> 
> Comments very welcome, please tell me if they seem good characters, or am I being repetitive


	3. Day 3: Progress

Javert woke in the morning, still in a temper. But he knew he had to go back to the bistro. To give up would not only put Gisquet behind schedule on the programme, but could be interpreted as him admitting defeat to the bistro's obnoxious staff. He would not give them such satisfaction. But in the back of his mind, the knowledge that there was something going on was still nagging at him. He had to get to the bottom of it, even when for once he hadn't got half a clue how to manage that. He might have only seen several hours of the restaurant´s operations, but nothing at Les Deux Chandeliers d'Argent was as he had expected, let alone easy to deal with. Why was this place so different from all the other washed-out restaurants he'd dealt with? The blank hotel ceiling gave him no answers and no encouragement. He longed for a fast-forward button to the end of the week, to the moment when all this confusion would come to an end. With a heavy sigh laced with unspoken imprecations which would land onto the heads of any of the staff who got in his way today, he swung himself out of bed.

Breakfast service at the restaurant went by in the same way as it had the day before. Javert wasn't sure whether to be grateful for that or not. On one hand he wasn't faced with any more surprises, but on the other hand he found no more clues, either. He stayed on the side-line again, watching the scene and combing for ideas as to what was going on. Nothing, except they seemed a little less wary of him, Grantaire had even thrown him an easy nod when he'd spotted him loitering, waiting to come in, and Valjean had shaken his hand as enthusiastically as every. Otherwise they left him alone. That didn't bother him, since it meant he had fewer distractions and more time to do his work as they did theirs. And they did. Perhaps there was less of a secret behind the bistro's business than his brain had begun to create. So he watched and waited, patient as ever.

  
When the staff was closing up after lunch, Javert made a decision. He stepped forward and intercepted Valjean, who was supervising the cleaning process.

“Can we talk?” Javert spoke curtly

The older man blinked at him for a moment, then neatly tossed his cloth to one of the students and nodded “Of course.”

The readiness to comply with his demand caught Javert off-guard. There was no guile, no wariness in Valjean's expression. The students had left one table untouched and Valjean angled towards it. When he sat down on one side, Javert took the chair on the opposite side, so they sat across from each other.

“I am going to be very honest with you, Valjean. I was sent here to fix a restaurant that is losing money, but I cannot do that if I cannot find the leak.”

O Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gisquet frantically shaking his head, demanding him to stop this particular line of conversation. But Javert ignored him. Honesty had worked before, and it might just shock an answer out the good-natured owner.

Valjean smiled lightly. "I will take that as a complement. We run an ship of oddments, that is true, but we pull together when push comes to shove."

He threw a tight smirk “When there is an opposing, interfering chef and his film crew around?”

  
“And many other times...but just recently yes.” Valjean tilted his head, his eyes twinkling, almost teasing.  
  
Infuriatingly evasive as that answer was, Javert now began to understand why the men worked for the boss, and why Michel had refused to cross any lines. It wasn't draconic terror that kept the staff in line, but love and loyalty. When he had first set foot in the bistro, he had seen the bar man's reaction when Javert had mentioned his boss, and had expected this Valjean to be a monster or an idiot. Or a mixture of the two, come to that. He had been mistaken.  
  
He sighed. "Perhaps you could help me with one thing," he said as he drew the now very crumpled pieces of paper from the pocket he had tucked them in. "I saw you place papers such as these on certain trays yesterday. Not all, just some." He paused, pushing the papers across the table towards Valjean. "What does that mean, 'Paid for by silver?'"

Valjean barely glanced at them. He met Javert's eyes steadily, without a flicker of fear. "They mean that the food is already paid for, and that the patrons need not worry about settling their bill."

“Paid for by who?” Javert kept his voice as neutral as he could.

“By the house.”

If Javert had been one to gawk, he was certain his jaw would have dropped so far as to make a suitable metro tunnel. Instead, he simply stared Valjean, waiting for the man to declare that he had been joking and perhaps gloat that he'd got one over the great Chef Javert. But there was no such declaration. There was no joke.

Eventually his lungs sucked in enough air for him to speak, only for the first word to come out ias a rather undignified squawk. "What!" He took another breath. "So—so you pay for meals that your customers can't pay for...? Well! That's a fine way to lose money! No wonder this place is sinking!"  
  
Valjean looked at him, apparently placid “That is what we do. It's what we've always done.”  
  
T"That explains a lot," Javert shot back. "And it stops, right now!"  
  
Valjean blinked once “How?”  
  
"You have a chalkboard. So, write a notice." He spun in his seat to find the whole staff listening in, but making no move in any useful direction. He glared at them. "Or must I do it myself?"  
  
He saw Eponine tremble with the beginning of movement, but a sharp glare from Michel stopped her where she stood. With a furious scoff, Javert got up and crossed the room. He found the chalkboard behind the front door, scrubbed out one side with his sleeve, and wrote in large, clear letters: 'No money, no admittance.'   
"You can't do that!" Michel barked when he had finally found his voice. Javert looked up to see a terrible fury on the chef's face. They locked eyes “"Would you rather lose your jobs?" he demanded. "Would you see your friends lose their homes, see Monsieur Valjean reduced to a pauper? You can't run a restaurant like this! Because this is a restaurant, not a soup kitchen!"  
  
Michel didn't back down, but Javert wasn't about to give him a chance to retort: he pointedly opened the door and placed the chalkboard outside, with the new message facing outwards. When he turned back, he was met by subtle shades of defeat and resentment on their faces.

Valjean stood up and untied his washing apron, which he handed to Grantaire. "I am going to church, I'll see you all at the start of lunch service...Good morning."   
They nodded. As the older man headed towards the door, Javert stepped aside to let him pass, but Valjean gave him no recognition. Hurt pride, if Javert was any judge. That was probably why he was making the excuse of going to church when there wasn't a mid-morning mass. But hurt pride was a normal thing at this stage of the programme. The man would come around. They all did, in the end. As the staff disappeared back to the kitchen, Javert took a deep breath of satisfaction. Now at last they were making progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments please, I know you are reading.


	4. Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previous chapters have now been betad and are much improved. Thank you to Chrissy24601.

It seemed to Javert that things appeared to be looking up when he arrived at the back door of the bistro on Thursday morning.Gisquet had told him to go on ahead, since the cameramen had been struggling with technical problems all morning. That had left him in a bad mood, but as he climbed the stairs from the kitchen to the main resturant, his mood lifted. He heard excited chattering and laughter like on the first day. Obviously enough patrons had found their coin purses and had returned despite his putting an end to the free meals.

However when he pushed open the door, not a single table was occupied. The noise came from the staff, who were grouped together around the bar. He marched forward, only to become even more incensed at their behavior when he heard the distinctive slap and shuffle of a card game in progress.

“Well, this is highly unprofessional isn't it?” He ladled every bit of irony and scorn he could muster into the rhetorical question.

The staff members turned and looked at him, eyes void of all guilt. Grantaire voiced their collective answer.

“What else are we supposed to do, great fixer, when there are no customers to serve? Stand and stare at the wall.”

Javert barely managed to stop his hands waving furiously in demonstration. "Prepare! Prepare for customers."

"We already have." Michel's head appeared from the other side of the bar, a frown on his face. "We are always prepared before we open, and only worry when we start to run out of ingredients, As you can see, there is no fear of this today." He glared at Javert. "Or any other day, if you carry on the way you started. There was hardly anyone looking at the menu in the window at dinner time, never mind an actual customer!”

Javert glared at him, all fury, but found himself momentarily silenced. He couldn't reply without triggering a yelling match, which, he expected, was exactly what Michel wanted him to do.

 

He glanced around for a sign of Valjean. There was none. But he did see the stairs he'd spied the other day. Without another word, he paced over and climbed them. He heard Michel yelling after him that the top floor was out of bounds, but Javert ignored him.

At the top of the stairs was a large room, smaller than the main restaurant, but still large. In the middle of it stood a long table, not unlike those used for large banquets. Along the outer wall, large windows extended to the ceiling, shrouded with curtains at the moment. It didn't seem as though it was part of the living accommodation that he had expected to find. There were a few smaller rooms in the back, but they didn't seem lived in, either. Valjean's flat had to be up in the attics, then. Calmer than he had been, he turned around and climbed down the winding stairs, back to the restaurant. There was going to be trouble, but he was ready to deal with it. 

 

However, when he got down, the gaggle was gone. Only Valjean stood in the restaurant, watching him with sad eyes. 

“Javert, I would like to speak with you, if I may.”

That, he realised, was the hallmark of the man: always gentle, never presuming anything, even on what was effectively his home ground. Javert could do nothing but accept the request. 

 

They sat at the same table they had used two days earlier, opposite each other. When Valjean spoke, it was very softly, barely above a whisper. "I would like to tell you a story, if you will hear me out. You see, there was once a man, a man who had a family. Well, a sister and her children really. Neither the man or his sister could find a paying job, and they lived on welfare. Times were hard. The man grew desperate, because the children were going hungry." He sighed and looked at his hands. "So the man began to steal. Little things only. Not valuable, but useful things, such as vegetables...bread. Then one day, the police caught him. They mixed him up with a far more notorious man, who had committed far worse crimes, including murders. The jury didn't believe, the judge didn't believe him. Not even his own lawyer believed him. And so the man went to prison, for life."

Valjean drew an unsteady breath. He didn't look up, and continued with his voice no stronger.

After fifteen years, the prosecutor realised the mistake. The man was released, with a small monetary compensation. But prison had embittered him, and with the petty theft that he had committed showing on his record, who would employ him? No-one. Thus he wandered, angry at the world."

Another pause. Javert couldn't see Valjean's expression now, only the snow white hair falling over a bowed head.

One night," Valjean continued, "a priest took him in, and served him dinner off a silver service set. The next morning, the priest gave him money, enough to start a business, and a list of contacts to help him. And finally he blessed the man, giving him the candlesticks from his own table as a gift. A marking of this rebirth."

As he spoke these last words, Valjean's eyes had lifted. He didn't look at Javert, but at a spot behind them. Javert turned in his seat and followed Valjean's gaze to the fireplace in the wall. On its mantel stood two silver candlesticks, a matched pair.

"Ah," Javert said quietly. "That man was you." 

Valjean nodded, silent, eyes still on the candlesticks. There was a long moment before he spoke again.  
“That is why this bistro works as it does. I help those who need it, as Bishop Myriel helped me years ago. The money does not matter.”

Javert looked at him. Knowing this, he did understand Valjean's motives better, but there was still something fundamentally impossible with the situation. But putting that feeling into words was not as easy as telling a restaurant owner he was doing it all wrong. Oh he'd had done that so many times, but for some reason, Valjean made it difficult to find the right words. Eventually he went with the only ones he could think of.  
"You cannot run at a loss," he began. "That would bring this wonderful place to its knees, destroy everything... There must be something we can do to plug the leak." TThe thought of the room above sprang into his head. "Could you not run two menus? Keep this as it is and have dinner parties upstairs on the long table?"

Valjean met his eyes with sad ones. "Who would come? Our patrons are the local workers, the poor. If they celebrate they wish everyone to share. There is no exclusivity here. And as you yourself have said, we are not on the tourist routes, or any main thorough-fare. We are a backwater, really. That is how it started, and it seems that is how it will end." The old man set his hands firmly on the table, standing up with effort. "Thank you, Javert, for your efforts in trying to help us... but from lunch time the original workings will be in effect. When we go down, at least we will go down happy, and not as an empty shell, all spirit taken from us."

Javert found himself compelled to rise, too. He accepted the offered hand mechanically, mind struggling to take in the fact that he had met his match: the restaurant he couldn't save. The owner he couldn't help.

"Do not feel badly," said Valjean. "You did all you could, all you knew, to help us. Thank you for trying.

 

Javert found himself escorted to the front door, and out of it. He walked away feeling completely numb.

 

At the hotel, his crew pressed around him as he triggered his room door. Clearly they intended to ask him to let them record a video diary-style segment of unguarded feeling, regarding the situation around him, to make up for the loss of today's restaurant footage. Instead he lost his temper the moment he stepped inside, turning on his heel and snarling at them.

“Leave me be!” he barked, and shot Gisquet a look to show he meant it. 

At the producer's signal, the crew backed off, and Javert took great satisfaction in slamming the door in their faces. He crossed the room and dropped into the desk chair. He pulled out the pad of paper that lay in a drawer and the terrible pen next to it.

He couldn't just let the bistro fail. This time it wasn't just self-pride that stung him. It would be easy, expected and even plausible to walk away now. But what kept gnawing at him was the depth of feeling, of love and pain in Valjean's eyes. If the bistro went, what would happen to him? It was clear he'd given himself heart and soul into the business. Its death would break him... Javert had already seen the start of it, with his stupid, blind behavior. He'd been sent in to save, but he might just have made the fall irrevocable. 

There had been almost no paying customers these last two days, no income to cover the continuous expenses which a restaurant must occur to survive. And according to the tone of Marius's letter, their savings were little. Javert was certain that Valjean was dipping into his own pocket simply to keep going. Surely something could be done? For no other reason than to fix what he had caused, Javert was determined not to turn his back on Jean.

'Jean'? Since when…? Well, it was the man's name, wasn't it? 

As if of its own violation, the page filled with suggestions. He crossed out almost all of them on second thought. Only the first one, the suggestion of dinner groups remained. He stared at it, unconsciously running his hand through his hair, as was his habit when thinking. The dinner party was the only solid solution that could make a difference on the short term, but Valjean had rightly reminded him that none of them had the contacts on the level required to fill that room with paying customers.

 

_But I do._

 

He pulled out his phone and turned it on, then slowly tapped his way through his contact list. He came across the first name he'd had in mind. For a moment, he merely stared at it. This was a big leap to take. He took a breath, and pressed call.


	5. Chapter 5

Grantaire was the first one to spot them coming around to the back door, and called the news back over his shoulder; “Trouble's arrived.”  
  
There was a loud bang as Michel slammed a metal pot on the side “What does he want now? Hasn't he caused enough damage to us?”   
  
They shared looks between themselves and also with Michel, waiting to see his response.  
  
“Let him in.”   
Valjean's voice cut though the tension though he had spoken only quietly. Michel looked at his boss, incredulous  
  
“Why, to let him ruin us even more?”  
  
“He may be coming to apologise.”   
  
Michel scoffed, his eyes very hard. “I cannot believe that. He's too proud, too stubborn”  
  
By contrast Monsieur Valjean's gaze was soft and gentle. "Are you too stubborn to give him a chance? Where would any of us be without a chance?"   
  
Grantaire sensed a battle of wills going on between the two men, but after a few seconds Michel dropped his head and opened the door with ill grace. For that, he was the recipient of a consoling nod. Grantaire smirked. Not many people could stand against Monsieur Valjean, not even Michel.

\------

Valjean watched as Javert entered with his camera crew at his heels. The tall man was changed: there was a humility to his movements, an effort to be insignificant that was a stark contrast to his previous attitude. He also looked as though he hadn't even tried to sleep last night.

  
"I'm sorry," Javert said without preamble.

There was a collective gasp, both from his staff and the men with Javert. To the corner of his gaze, Michel looked as though someone had knocked him about the head. But Valjean focused on Javert. A conceding Javert, a yielding Javert.

“Apology accepted.”  
Javert lost some of the tenseness which had been in his body, and offered his hand to Michel.  
Valjean kept his eyes on his Chef, willing him to shake it. Michel did so, with something approaching good grace.

That large hurdle jumped, Javert steadied himself “I'm sorry for taking two days income from you, damaging your reputation... If you'll allow me I may have a solution.”

It seemed that the whole staff except Valjean combined their voices in a variation of sighs and 'oh no, not again'. Valjean simply tilted his head, curiosity very clear in his expression as he held up his hand for silence.

“I would like to hear this plan.”

Javert nodded slowly, then continued: "Dinner parties, in the upstairs room, with the long table." A sceptical silence greeted that, but he ploughed on. "I've been in contact with some colleagues to set up a group."

He was certain that he heard a satisfied muttering coming from someone, along the lines of 'I knew he'd o behind our backs.' But Valjean's expression hadn't changed, and it was his opinion that mattered.  
“Might we know when to expect this party?” Valjean asked.

His throat went tight, ready for the explosion which would follow. “Tomorrow lunch-time."

And for sure, uproar ensued in a clamour of questions and curses. It was Eponine's voice that finally cut through demanding an answer.   
"How do you expect us to be ready, to have a menu organised? To have to top room tidy and clean? We—" She gestured to all the others around her "—'ve got to run full service for the day. We'd only have the hours between lunch and dinner, which are normally our own. And with no prior planning, no time to stock up on ingredients and extra wine, even that wouldn't be enough to make that happen!""  
  
Valjean added: "The first floor hasn't been cleaned for some time, either. There is a lot of dust up there, and everything downstairs needs to shine as if it was wearing its Sunday best because that is where the guests come in. As Eponine implies, we need an army."  
  
But Javert met and held his gaze. "You have your extra manpower. Just provide the dusters.” 

At the general confusion that followed, he glanced over his shoulders at his film crew. They looked very surprised, and Gisquet was backing away with all speed, his gaze appealing to Javert to come to his senses. Javert hardened his gaze in return, and the producer ceased his attempt to retreat. Gisquet and his men knew Javert at his steeliest, and none really wanted to get on the wrong side of him, not when it was clear that he was set on his path. Javert then looked to the staff of the bistro. They seemed pensive to him, and he could tell from experience that they were working out a menu to prepare for the occasion.

  
Despite the previous objections, Valjean was still smiling at him. The expression was almost fond. "Thank you, Javert," he said. Then he addressed his whole staff: "Michel, as ever, you're in charge here. Feuilly, Combeferre, and the gentlemen of the camera crew…" His lips twitched ever so slightly. "Come with me please."  
Javert stepped aside to allow his party past, intending to bring up the rear. The look Gisquet threw him might have had the man in court on murder charges if they lived in another world, but inexplicably Javert found laughter bubbling in his chest. He was going to see this bistro back to success, and he intended to use every and any resource at his disposal to do so.  


Leaving the cooks to their efforts to come up with a menu, the rest of them climbed the stairs to the extra room, where Valjean began directing the cameramen to move a number of boxes from under the large table into a back room behind the kitchen for temporary storage. Javert surveyed the hidden piles with some dismay, frowning at his own oversight when he'd 'found' this. He had intended to help, but seemed to have only caused more work for Valjean's team. Still, there was nothing to do now but pitch in. He hefted one of the nearest boxes into his arms, then stared Gisquet into action before carefully descending the stairs.

When he reached the back room, he found Valjean beside him, also carrying a box. Still, the older man had no problem neatly shouldering the door open for both of them before setting his box down and out of the way. Javert put his down, too, and slapped his palms off on his thighs to remove the dust and the aching lines caused by the box's sharp corners.   
“Might I ask why?”   
Javert lifted his head and met Valjean's inquisitive gaze. "Because of what you said yesterday," he replied, feeling a bit uneasy. "This place is different to anything else I have been sent to. It deserves to remain, to prosper."  
  
Valjean nodded slowly, but Javert saw his eyes were concerned rather than grateful.  
  
"This is a big risk for you, Javert. If they are unimpressed, or if, God-forbid it, we slip up tomorrow, it's your neck on the line along with ours. Your reputation, everything you've worked for; it could all collapse."  
  
Javert swallowed. He had been aware of that when he set this plan in motion, but it was one thing to consider the fact within his own head. It was quite another to have Valjean spell it out. Somehow it made what he'd done even more irrefutable. Still he did not look away from the older man's eyes.   
"You're worth it," he said simply. He nearly added Jean's name before his tongue froze in his mouth. But this was what it came to: he was staking everything to help this man. And if he had to do yesterday all over again, he knew he'd make the same decisions without a second thought.  
 _Why?_   
He shook the irritating thought away. There was no time for introspection now. Only time for action.   
  
"We should carry on helping, or Michel will have us both for shirking!"   
  
The jest in Valjean's voice woke Javert up. They crossed back into the restaurant, sidestepping the parade of box carriers and waiting their turn to climb back up the stairs, where those who were not moving things had been set to cleaning.   


It was almost comical, watching his producer 'helping'. Gisquet, with his shirt sleeves rolled back to his elbows, had a bottle of wood polish on one side of him, a duster in his hand, and a look of thunder on his face. Even more amusing was seeing Feuilly instruct him as to the proper way to polish. Javert knew he might be in big trouble when this was all over, but it would be worth it.

Everyone else seemed to be getting on without any problems, polishing the long table and the smart chairs which went alongside it. The boxes were out of sight and every surface was being dusted to an inch of existence. Javert surveyed the room from on top of a chair, where he'd been directed to detach the curtains and bring them down for a bashing. Jean had been attempting the same job, but Javert had firmly deposed him and taken over, putting his extra height to good use. He unhooked one of the large curtains and caught it clumsily as it attempted to enfold around him. Letting it drop to the round, he climbed off his chair and gathered the cloth up in a bundle to take outside where his sound man was helping one of Valjean's staff to beat the dust out of heavy curtains.

They were making progress, slowed only for a few hours during morning opening. But the success of his plan depended on more than the cleanliness and presentation of the room. It depended on the food being as it ever was, on no mad incidents or hitches. Still, he knew better than to go down to the kitchen and voice his concerns. He'd be treading on toes if he did. He knew full well, and unlike other places, he now cared, that Michel only tolerated him here because Valjean had permitted him entry. Otherwise he would be out of here faster than any word he could think of. 

But Michel knew his trade. "Well, the menu is done, as are what preparations we could do tonight. It won't be one of our best, monsieur. It's too short notice for that. Especially the dessert may prove problematic."  
  
Valjean nodded, and drew a breath with the intention to encourage Eponine. Desserts were her area in this bistro, and as it was last course, it seemed that most of the pressure rested on her. But before he could say anything, he was interrupted by Javert's voice coming from behind him.  
  
"I never had one of your desserts when I first came here," Javert said to Eponine, "but I've heard high praise of them when I prepared to come here, and then more from your customers. Keep your head, and we'll all be fine."  
  
Eponine appeared to ignore him, except for a scathing glance to remind him that it was his fault that they were working with too little time. However, Valjean caught Javert´s eyes as the other man shepherded his film crew out the door and gave him a small nod of thanks. The words would mean something to Eponine once she had slept on them. They were encouragement and praise of the greatest kind, especially coming from a man like Javert. They all needed that encouragement now, for tomorrow would either be a beginning or an ending. After tomorrow, for better or worse, they would not be able to go on exactly as they had before. And with that thought in his head, Valjean wondered if he would sleep at all this night.  



	6. The Day of reckoning

The clock showed that it was nearing one o'clock in the morning. Saturday, the day of reckoning for all of them.

Javert knew he should roll over and go back to sleep, knew he would need every bit of energy to get through this day, purely due to the stress levels. But his brain wouldn't quiet. It was as wide awake as if it had been time to get up. In four hours perhaps he could consider getting up, but not now. Instead he worried. He had tried to invite the most traditional, least highbrow of his contacts to the dinner party, but _'Les Deux Chandelier's d'Argent'_ was different, in a league of its own. He didn't know how they would react. Nevermind the repercussions for himself, it was all or nothing for the bistro.

Jean's words from two days before came back to him. Was it only two days? It felt like a lifetime.

_ ' At least we will go down happy.' _

There was a small crumb of comfort: even if everything went wrong, they had done their utmost, above and beyond what had been expected. That counted for something. Knowing this gave him that tiny bit of peace he needed to fall asleep at last.  


As the sun rose over Paris, Javert was wide awake once more. He strode out into the hotel corridor and banged on the doors of his crew. 

"Wake up!" he barked. From this particular room came no bitter grumble of a half-awake cameraman, but a clear call. The door opened, revealing the man to be as wide awake as Javert. One more surprise, but that was only fitting, really, after how this week had gone. "You're ready? Then we'll go."

"I wouldn't miss this," the cameraman said, "even if the camera malfunctions again."

The enthused smile only made Javert's fears stir again, but he turned and led the way down the corridor without a quaver.

 

The hectic activity in the kitchen drove his doubts from his mind. The clanging of mixing bowls and implements might have deafened someone who wasn't used to it. The staff were scurrying to and fro, either to the store cupboard or the baskets by the back door, which clearly contained the result of this morning's market scurry for the last ingredients.

Javert raised his voice so it carried to Michel, who was near the back of the kitchen: "Everything looks under control."  
  
The chef glanced up, met his eyes for a split second, and gave a short nod. However both his expression and the activity in the kitchen suggested that intruders weren't welcome, and Javert beat a hasty exit back up to the main room. The bistro was the busiest he'd ever seen it at morning service, almost as busy as it was at lunch times, it seemed.

 

He found Valjean, who was on his way back down with a stack of grubby plates. [In the narrative, stick to the name you have used from the start or readers get confused. In dialogue and in thought, however, Javert can call Valjean anything he likes ;P]

"Is it normally like this on a Saturday?"

Valjean shook his head sharply. "No, Saturday morning is quiet for us." He glanced over his shoulder at the room, assessing it. "It seems half our lunch lot are in here to get breakfast rather than lunch. Word about our visitors this afternoon has gone around, and bless them, they are trying to be useful by not getting under our feet later. It might help, but it might damage whatever you told your colleagues about our popularity." He shrugged. "One way or another, things will come out as they are supposed to."

Javert held open the door open for him and watched the man descending the steps to the kitchen. He envied Valjean's apparent confidence in everything. Maybe if he felt so sure, he would stop his silent panicking.

 

When the morning rush cleared, Javert found himself in the middle of another rush of frantic polishing and dusting of everything in the main restaurant. Personally he couldn't see how the already tidy room could get even smarter, apart from a final sweep of the floor that Grantaire was doing already.  But by the end of the group's concerted efforts, every bit of the dark wood gleamed in deeper, richer hues than before. He could do no more than nod when Valjean looked at him, as if seeking approval. It was, in an extremely restrained and natural sense, beautiful.

 

 

At lunchtime, the kitchen was considerably less busy than it had been this morning. Indeed there were fewer regulars in the restaurant, but that gave Michel and his team time to prepare the dishes they had devised for their special guests. As the clock struck twelve, all eyes turned to the clock high on the wall. Then the door swung open and Gavroche hurried in.  
  
"There's a large group of men crossing the square. They're dressed up stupidly smart if they are coming here." He finally became aware of the terrified glances most of them were giving him. "What did I say?"  
  
Michel turned to the others. "We may as well know who we're up against. Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Feuilly, come with me. We'll see if we can sneak a look as they come in." 

 

They nodded at him and together they crept their way up the flight of stairs to the restaurant door, pushing it ever so slightly ajar so they could peak through the gap and espy their new arrivals. Michel set his eye to the gap, and after a moment, took in exactly who he was seeing enter the little bistro.   
  
"Oh."  
  
The others took his place and took a look of their own. "Oh."  
  
"I have to say that is a very good summation," another voice said.  
  
Michel turned and glared at Graintaire, who was standing just down a step from him."  
What are you doing?"  
  
Agreeing with you. I found another spying spot, and 'oh' pretty much covers what I've seen, too."  


 

 

From his niche, Javert watched Valjean, at the most formal and courteous Javert had ever seen him, greet the chefs as they came in. The cameramen out in the room, gathering as many shots as they could get so Gisquet would have plenty to choose from for the final montage. They captured various angles of Valjean leading the group up the stairs to the large room.

Javert knew he should be at Valjean's side to guide the guests in. He was the one who had invited them, for Heaven's sake! But Valjean needed to make an impression, not him. His presence would be too distracting. He would have to face these legendary master chefs at a later stage, but for now, he stayed where he was. Not out of cowardice, but out of the budding sense of humility that Valjean had taught him. Or so he told himself. Either way, staying out of sight suited his frayed nerves just fine. 

 

As quietly as he could he crept downstairs to the kitchen. He eased open the door with as little squeak or clatter as possible. Michel didn't even look up at him.  
  
"If you've finally come to make yourself useful, get that apron on and go help Eponine."  
  
Javert did so, edging down the middle of the kitchen as smoothly and unobtrusively as he could before joining the girl at her workstation.  
  
She nodded to a pan on the hob next to him.  
  
"Watch the syrup and don't let it burn."  


He had seen the menu they had put together and knew what to do to make the dessert she had planned, but he said nothing. As the mixture in the pan heated he began to stir it, bowing his head as he concentrated on the task. His nerves steadied as he performed the repetitive motion, even when he heard Michel calling out for the starters to be served, and the clamour around him increased. The stress level rose in the air, but it was a familiar kind of stress. While he might be a television chef, he was first and foremost a chef rather than a front of house. This was what he knew; what he had originally been trained for.  


Beside him, Eponine chopped the apples with a terrified intensity, discarding the cores and piling the slices to one side. She caught him looking, and pointedly glared at the saucepan. He switched his gaze back to it, aware of the rebuke, and also aware that she had entrusted him with both the most simple and the most difficult part of the dish: the caramel. His concentration on the pot sharpened further. He knew very well how quickly the mix could go from well-behaved to burned, and there was no time to start over, given that the tarte itself still had to go into the oven and they were tight-pressed for oven space as it was.

 

Carefully he tipped the syrup over the half apples, which were to be the stuffing of the tarte. Innovative, but if done well extremely tasty. Eponine gave him half a nod and scraped out every last drop of caramel from the saucepan. Javert returned the nod as he added the saucepan to the washing up pile, and looked to her for more instructions as to what she wanted him to do while the tarte was in the oven. She appeared to ignore him for a moment, walking back to the store cupboard, until he realised she was only bringing out more ingredients: chocolate as well as various fruits and nuts.

Melting the chocolate aside, which Eponine did herself, Javert had to confess that making the little Mediants  was almost fun, if it hadn't been for the stress. They were made according to the traditional style. Chocolate disks, with one peice of fruit or nut for each of the friary orders of France; raisins for the Dominicans, hazelnut for the Augustins, dried fig for the Franciscans and almond for Carmelite. . Too often these days, they were used as an anything-goes biscuit. Aesthetically, he had to confess he had always liked the traditional pattern. There was a nice differentiation in texture and taste, and it didn't become too sweet because of the nuts in it. Given who they were serving, she had made a fine choice. To think he had feared the apple hadn't fallen from her rotten tree of a father, but while he watched her work, he was more and more convinced that she was as far removed from her father as was possible for two of the same blood and profession.

 

Time ticked by, dishes flowing out full and back in mercifully empty. Javert allowed himself to breathe when they slipped the tarte back into the oven for its final cooking. Half an hour of almost peace left before things went completely mad in their corner of the kitchen. He didn't dare move, but he felt his mind rove upwards, wondering how it was going in the top room, and silently hoping that everyone kept their nerves until the end.  
  
"Where are the Mediants? Will someone slap that one upside the head and make him fetch them!"  
  
Javert, engrossed in thought, assumed someone else was being addressed, but a hand connected with his head. He rubbed the hurt instinctively and looked over at Michel.  
  
"Mediants. Out the freezer, onto plates, now!"  
  
Oui, chef!"  


Flushing, annoyed at being caught off back, he retreated to the cool room and retrieved the tray. The Mediants had set well. In fact, they had set better than the way they did when put in a freezer. They turned so icy then. That was something to remember for Christmas time at his own restaurant. Carefully he lifted them onto their dishes, arranging them so they matched in a circle. Beside him, Eponine sliced up the required pieces of Tarte Tatin. They both watched as the dishes passed Michel's inspection and were ferried out by the waiters. There was a palpable sense of relief as they disappeared out of sight, and Eponine let out her breath with a whoosh, which made everyone chuckle.

"Well done, everyone," Michel's voice was softer than Javert had ever heard it. "We did our bit."

But Javert noted that Michel left the most dangerous part out: the final verdict still rested on the guests upstairs. They all noticed. The tension returned. Eponine broke it with a few words:

"I made a few extra Mediants, if anyone would like one."

The others turned towards her, eyes lighting up as she revealed the sweets sitting on the side. Javert moved away. He intended to dissociate himself from the team, but found that one mediant was slipped into his hand anyway. He ate it quickly, before the nerves that had been supressed by the pressures of cooking ruined his appetite. This time, however, he was not nervous for himself, but for the bistro. He'd never felt this before, not even in the most desperately stupid places.

 

Valjean came down the stairs and into the kitchen, catching Javert's eyes as he entered. Now, to Javert's own fright, there was a flash of nerves in the older man's eyes.

"Gisquet wants to see you."

Javert nodded, knowing that it was now his turn to canvass the chefs on their overall thoughts, something circumstances had dictated wasleft to Gisquet for the previous courses. Slowly he untied his apron and pulled it off over his head. Eponine took it from him with something like a sympathetic look

"Don't let them eat you alive."

 

He wanted to quip back, but his tongue stuck in his mouth. Even as he passed Valjean and he longed to touch the man's shoulder in reassurance, his muscles disobeyed him and his hand stayed still. He climbed both flights of steps into the dinner room. He took a deep breath, greeted the chefs who where here at his invitation, and began to ask questions.

 

 

 

"He's taking a long time up there"

 

Gavroche's voice was low, but it sounded deafeningly loud in the silent kitchen. A few of them jumped, including Valjean.   


"Hush, Gavroche. All that means is he is getting in-depth opinions... and we must allow for the fact that there were a dozen of them with whom he needs to converse."

 

"That means nitpicking."

 

"Not necessarily." But there were nervous glances which implied that the boy might have hit the nail square on the head.

 

Right on that cue Javert returned. "Upstairs please. All of you," he called out.

 

The few regular customers who hadn't left yet were treated to a parade of a staff that was not at all sure of whether they were going to the guillotine or to their coronation. Javert could tell by the glances the team shared and by the way they walked that they felt like uncertainty personified. He chivvied them up the stairs, halting just in front of the door while Michel and his team filed into the large room. Next to him, Valjean stayed behind and closed the door but for an inch. Through the slit, he peeped at what went on inside. Javert leaned in to sneak a peek of the reactions for himself, unconsciously aware that their shoulders brushed together as he did so. 

 

The applause echoed off the walls. And one after another, the younger chefs in the party rose to their feet. The older men didn't, too aware of proper decorum to demonstrate too high spirits, but the acclaim was easy enough to see. Javert felt a grin split his face. He had known the chefs' response, of course, but the genuine relief and joy on the faces of Valjean's staff was more than worth leading them on. And it made for good television. His arm stung where Valjean slapped him in playfully, accompanied with a mock glare for just a split second before the older man retuend his attention to the peeping gap. In the room, the team linked hands, bowing theatre style, and then pushed Michel forwards for his own bow.

 

When Michel rose again, there was a breath in the applause.  "Ou est le  propriétaire?" one of the chefs exclaimed.  "Where is the owner?"

 

One by one, the others joined in, demanding to see Valjean.

 

Javert noticed Valjean shied back from the door. The team were looking over their shoulders now, and Eponine hurried to the door. 

 

"Monsieur? They want to see you, monsieur!"

 

Javert gave the older man a nudge. "Go on, they're cheering for you."

 

Valjean shook his head. "Let the others have the praise. I did little."

 

"Fiddlesticks! This place wouldn't exist without you. Now get out there and take your dues." He put his hand on the other man's back, opened the door and gave Valjean a pointed shove into the room. The applause rose to a crescendo. Javert joined in, even as he watched Valjean's awkward reception of it, although he left out the floor stamping that one or two of the younger chefs were employing.

 

This was what he'd hoped for. This was what he wanted to get in every restaurant. But the actual attainment, it was beyond anything he'd even considered.

 

***

 

 

"No! Leave the washing up," Valjean said. "Clear the restaurant, stack the chairs out the way and bring down the music player. This calls for a celebration."

Javert laughed aloud at the sheer exuberance in Valjean's voice, and the alacrity of response to his unorthodox orders. He scuttled out of the way and got his back up against the wall as the staff formed two lines, one opposite the other down the length of the restaurant. Gavroche was perched up on the bar, the CD player next to him.

"I don't know the steps," Lesgles protested through a grin.

Valjean laughed back at him. "That's why you're partnered with me. Now."

Javert vaguely recognized the dance as a bourree, but the speed of the music was enough to have the feet tapping on the wooden floor. Left lead two, right lead two, back again, left lead, right lead, through the gap. The dance began to move faster, the pairs working smoothly, through the complicated bits. But then with the exception of Lesgles, they all had southern accents and they had learnt this as children.

Lesgles took a wrong step, moving back a second too soon and catching Valjean full on the back. Valjean stumbled forwards. Javert leapt from his stool to catch him on the same urge that had pressed the man's first name into his mind. Somewhere in his attempt, Valjean grabbed him in a reflex to stay upright but instead pivoted on a hand clutching Javert's shoulder and fell right into Javert, who was looking down just as Valjean's head tilted up. Thus they came to a standstill, faces barely an inch apart.

Somehow his leaning forward just happened; only a fraction, but a fraction was enough. The first touch was a mere brush of their lips, but Valjean didn't pull away. And so the second touch was longer, deeper. A true kiss. Valjean's hand had slipped from his shoulder to the back of his neck, a pleasant warmth as it rested there. Finding that he didn't at all mind, Javert held the older man close, quite happy to keep their lips locked for as long as his lungs permitted him. 

 

CRASH!

 

"Gavroche!"

 

The two simultaneous noises made them pull apart. The contact was gone and so was the moment. Javert felt a blush creep up his face, and he avoided Valjean's gaze, certain that the other man was doing the same, making them a picture of awkwardness. 

He glanced about, temporarily disorientated by what had happened. It appeared that Valjean's tumble had not ended the dance, and Gavroche, who had come down from his perch to join in, had crashed into a cameraman. Javert hurried over to check for damage, although several of his crew were already on it. The brief melee provided a chance to lose his blush and resume normality before filming continued; a chance he was most grateful for.

 

 

There was no damage, fortunately. The cameras were in heavy cases for good reasons. But the magic of the dance had dispelled. The staff began to drift towards their washing up and chores, as the clock outside chimed a resilient four o'clock.

 

Javert felt his happiness evaporate. This was the end. His job here was done. With the good reviews of so many outstanding chefs, Valjean would have no trouble filling the upstairs room with paying customers and make the bistro profitable. That was what he had come to do. That was the format of the show: he came, he corrected, he left. But this time, Javert didn't want to leave. More than ever before he wanted to stay. To stall for time he let Gisquet herd the staff back to the centre of the room, rather than doing it himself. He took a deep breath, composing himself formally for the cameras.

 

"Traditionally this is the time for me to make a farewell speech, to be condescending and say 'well done' to all of you... I will say 'well done', because you've worked yourself beyond anything I've seen. But I must also say 'thank you'. I am not the same man I was when I came here." He had never been prone to sentimentality, but he had no idea how to put it better. "If I wore a hat, it would be doffed. If I had a glass, I would give a toast. To 'Les Deux Chandeliers d' Argent'."

 

Sensitive to his efforts, they raised a cheer, Gavroche climbed onto the bar and waived his worn cap in the air before throwing it towards Javert with an accompanying yell of 'Would you like mine?'.

 

Javert caught the cap and smiled in return, making a sweeping bow.

 

The last film shots would be of the formal handshakes and his departure, before they cut back to his return in a month to see how the bistro was getting on.The farewell was easy and without much reluctance, even from Michel. But when Javert came to Valjean, he found his offered hand ignored in favour of two arms coming up around his neck to pull him into a tight hug. Awkwardly, he returned the gesture, holding it as long as he dared before breaking away and meeting the man's eyes once more. They were as gentle as ever, and full of joy. But Valjean said nothing about what had happned, and therefore neither did he. All he could manage was a crooked smile before he turned and walked out the front door onto the square.

 

He strode back across the square, casting one last glance and a wave over his shoulder before going out of view. He saw Gavroche all but dangling out of the attic window waving his cap, while Valjean stood in the doorway, hand raised for farewell. Javert swallowed down a lump. Ordinarily the two weeks in his own resturent, before filming the catchups that made the last sixth of each program, would be heaven. But this time he realised that the month he would spend away, might well be the longest, most painful, month of his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the penultimate chapter, but as there is going to be a very long break before the epilouge, I'm temporarily classing it as the last one. See you all in the winter holidays


End file.
